


spread love like violence

by astrid (alharper)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Fantastic Racism, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, anger issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-29 01:31:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16253900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alharper/pseuds/astrid
Summary: RK900 is the only RK model outside of Connor himself who’s chosen to stay in Detroit after they are all woken as deviants within the cool, high walls of CyberLife.  The DPD will be in want of more androids on the force as nearly 15% of the population becomes suddenly capable of crime, and solving crime is what he was made to do, human and android alike.But when he arrives, Detective Gavin Reed is the only one in need of a partner - predictably, at the rate he burns through them; he’s in want of one more often than he isn’t.  Is the chance to fulfill his primary objectives really worth having to manage a hateful asshole?





	spread love like violence

“Captain Fowler, a pleasure to meet you.”

The captain grunts in response. His expression would seem to point towards annoyance, but the deep lines around his eyes indicate this is simply the resting expression of a man who has spent a lot of years with too much stress or inadequate sleep. He shakes RK900's hand amicably enough.

“Got yourself a name yet?” he asks bluntly. RK900 shakes his head, embarrassed.

“All models of my type were to share a casual designation with the RK800 model, but given the physical similarities in design it seemed a potential avenue for confusion.” He pauses. It's true, but it isn't all of it, and it seems unwise to set a poor foundation - popular media indicated that half-truths inevitably led to difficulties in ongoing relationships, and he expected this to be an important and long term working relationship. “Nothing quite… feels right,” he says eventually.

The Captain looks surprised at that, though his expression returns quickly to its gruff neutral. “Well, we all get years to grow into them, makes sense it'd take you a while. Let me know if you need anything updated later.”

RK900 nods politely, but before he can respond they're interrupted by the casual rap of knuckles on glass before someone slouches into the room. No identifiers, not even the badge that most of the investigators wear clipped to their pants within the precinct, but a visual match confirms Detective Gavin Reed, age 37, as well as a slew of the personnel information he was given clearance for at precisely 8:30am this morning.

He’s quite attractive, which RK900 had not expected to have an opinion on - and didn't, when reviewing staff photos. Detective Reed is wearing a leather jacket over a forest green v-neck and jeans, all of which combine to do a good job of hinting at good physical fitness without displaying it directly. A faded scar across his nose and poor shaving habits only contribute to the look. His eyes are registered as gray, but beneath the harsh fluorescents appear a bluer color than RK900’s own. Surprised recognition flickers through them, and he makes an odd sort of chortling sound - something like amusement, but with an edge of cruelty to it before dropping lazily into the chair beside him, swinging one ankle to prop up onto the opposite knee. His boots are leather, well worn. It’s a very classic aesthetic, reminiscent of motorcycle riders; bad boy coding. It seems like an odd choice for their line of work.

“What, we have quota’s now, Captain? That jumped-up nurse negotiate you into some affirmative action, or just upgrading the existing microwave? Anderson’ll have a conniption if you take his binkie.”

“That’s your new partner, Reed, so watch your mouth.” Captain Fowler speaks with a mildness that is somewhat at odds with the irritable look he shoots the detective’s way.

The lazy smirk freezes into something ugly. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Do I strike you as a particularly jovial man, detective?”

Reed’s sitting up now. His hands are curled around the armrests of his chair, and he’s leaning forward over his knees, lips curled into a snarl. “The NYPD comes knocking every so often, Captain. Should I start opening the door?” it’s unpleasant, the way he’s speaking, a level of aggression and stress to his voice that sets off a number of passive alarm systems RK900 hadn’t had occasion to see yet. He closes them.

“Be my guest. They requisitioned almost every other RK model produced.”

“I don’t need it, Captain - the last thing I need is a fucking robot getting in the way of me doing my job.”

“Anderson and Connor have the best close rate in the precinct.”

“The _robot_ has the best close rate, because you give them all the best cases. Anderson’s a fucking stooge and you know it.”

“I recall tell you to watch your fucking mouth, Reed,” he snaps, “and maybe you’d have some say over your partner if you didn’t have every last detective assigned to you requesting a transfer inside a month. You’re good at investigation, but that doesn’t mean shit if you can’t work with anyone. Now either shut the fuck up or turn in your fucking badge.”

He shuts up.

“This is a pattern of child android kidnappings. They’re all YK500’s so far, all with factory appearances.”

“Grand theft robot,” he smirks, and the Captain fixes him with a level stare until the smirk disappears.

“Go interview the family, and for the love of god, pick up some fucking sensitivity on your way over.”

“Why’s this with me in the first place? What about your little android strike force?”

The Captain pulls something up on his screen, and swivels it so they can see it. It’s the brochure for the YK500 series. _THE PERFECT CHILD YOU ALWAYS DREAMED OF_ , screams the headline. He scrolls down three pages to the smiling face of a little boy, big blue eyes and a cheeky smile, angled to hide the LED in his temple.

“Be decent about it, Reed,” he says quietly.

Reed’s face twists for a moment. “I’m not a total bastard,” he says eventually.

“Detective,” RK900 says into the silence, “I have taken the liberty of transferring the case files to your account for immediate review.” Reed goes stiff in his chair and then stands abruptly, chair clattering. It doesn’t fall over behind him, but it comes close. RK900 rises to follow him.

“Just stay out of my fucking way,” Reed spits, and slams the door in his face on the way out. RK900 stops - anger, new and unfamiliar, nearly overwhelming, is crawling across his sensors. It’s an unpleasant, inexplicably physical sensation. For a brief fraction of a second, he considers retiring to the bathroom to check that there is nothing caught beneath the silicate polymer layer that constitutes his skin.

“I question the wisdom of assigning a known android hater to what may be a hate crime,” he says to the door. Behind him, Captain Fowler sighs.

“Look, I know he's a real asshole. But Reed’s still one of the brightest detectives we have, and his ambition is a lot stronger than his bullshit. He'll be even more motivated to solve it _because_ of that - any implication he wouldn't do his job will stick in his craw for years. If you get to the end of this case and want a new partner, file for it.”

RK900 leaves without acknowledging him. Captain Fowler mutters under his breath but RK900's hearing is, after all, inhumanly good. “It’s what every other guy does.”

#

The Captain is not being misleading - from all evidence able to be gathered via precinct reports, Gavin Reed _is_ an exceptional detective. His professional record has an outstanding closure rate, and he holds the place of third youngest officer at the DPD to make detective, only missing out on second by a few months. It’s what doesn't quite make it into official reports and public evaluations that hold the truths more relevant to his needs, however - the “between the lines” of delicately chosen phrasing.

Openly and unapologetically ambitious, he had a good shot at taking the record for youngest Lieutenant inside of the next decade. But brilliant or not, he's also antagonistic, obviously insecure, and - to put it in colloquial terms - a complete dick. He can’t keep a partner to save his career. The most recent assignment lasted under two shifts, and every partnership since then is noted in the bright red of a temporary assignment.

“Do you have a name?”

“I have not chosen a casual moniker,” RK900 tells him. “I am the only RK900 model in existence, so it should be more than adequate as a designation.” Reed doesn’t respond, or even look up, but his jaw tightens.

“Well, plastic, don’t fuck anything up.”

“I was created to be entirely case-ready, detective. If anything, I am more prepared than yourself.”

He sneers at that, an animalistic baring of teeth, and pushes away from the desk to stalk towards the kitchen, muttering “fucking androids.” Across the bullpen, Lieutenant Anderson and Connor are also leaving - they detour by a few desks to avoid Reed’s warpath. Connor catches his eye and smiles. RK900 looks away.

The most recent case hasn’t been attended to beyond the beat cops who responded to the emergency call, but the remainder are the sloppy leftovers of coworkers who were either incompetent or entirely disinterested. They all contain language that suggest that Reed’s sly crack about theft is the majority opinion - none of them are filed as kidnappings until this latest one, including the one that finally caught the attention of homicide. The first boy was found, factory reset, standing in one of the old android parking stations that hadn’t yet been dismantled. RK900 will review the footage himself, but the case notes indicate that he appeared quite suddenly out of one of the few remaining CCTV black spots and walked himself over before a reset was commanded remotely - it’s murder, just as effectively as a bullet, but the human detectives seem to have difficulty understanding a murder that leaves behind a body that still walks and speaks.

The most recent was entered by Connor himself alongside a note requesting it be transferred to a different detective. There’s no evidence to suggest that Lieutenant Anderson has seen the file at all.

After seven and a half minutes, Detective Reed stands and leaves his desk, striding rapidly towards the exit, with RK900 forced to hurry after him upon recognizing his destination.

There are three parking bays near the entrance of the precinct, which hold autonomous cars for use by the DPD. Currently, there is a single marked car and one unmarked, with the third a loading bay for cars from which police are disembarking. It's a useful system, but even ten years after widespread adoption, there are a number of humans who are not comfortable with autonomous vehicles, distrusting AI to navigate without human input.

For all his discomfort with androids, Detective Reed does not appear to be amongst their number, swinging into what would in a user operated vehicle have been the drivers’ side while RK900 slid into the other before he had a chance to leave.

“I told you to stay out of my fucking way, not follow me like a stray,” the detective tells him flatly. “Get out of the fucking car.”

“Is it not standard practice to accompany one’s partner when leaving the precinct on police business? The Captain must have neglected to ensure the protocols I was given this morning were up to date.”

“Fucking plastic,” he mutters, and stabs coordinates into the driving module with one blunt finger, but doesn't repeat the demand. Triumph swells grim and bitter in RK900’s chest.

#

He keeps completely still as they drive. If the detective has already decided to hate him, there doesn’t seem any point in wasting processing power on the little movements that keep humans comfortable. Reed keeps looking sideways at him, unsubtle in his irritation.

“Aren’t you lot supposed to be perfect?”

RK900’s not sure how to respond until he realizes that Reed’s not just throwing general glances, but specifically looking at the collection of freckles that decorate the synthetic skin of his face. “We are designed to be appealing, but humans find genuine aesthetic perfection uncanny.”

They pass the rest of the ride in silence until they’re pulling into the address on file, an idyllic little two-story with a sycamore out front, a well kept lawn and a high fence that shields view of the backyard from the street. There are rose bushes around the little porch, meticulously cared for, but it's the wrong time of year for flowers. They're diminished, and look dead.

“I’d leave you in the car, but they probably miss plastic on the furniture.” Reed tells him, smirking at his own poor joke. “Just shut the fuck up, and follow my lead.” RK900 rolls his eyes, but follows in silence.

The family consists of a married couple in their sixties, Anika and Jessica Miller. Jessica has huge, dark eyes and tightly curled black hair, cloudy gray creeping in at her hairline. It’s just long enough to scrape her jaw, which ticks occasionally due to the force with which she’s clenching it. If she doesn’t have a headache yet, it won’t be long before she does.

She offers them a polite, watery smile, and leads them both through to where her wife is sitting at the dining table, back ramrod straight. There are signs everywhere of the single missing member of their little family - toys stacked neatly in the corner of the lounge, a collection of hardcover paper books with embossing that used to be gold but was now almost completely worn away, proclaiming the adventures of the _Famous Five_. A photograph standing on the counter in a handmade frame of a little boy with suds in his hair, eyes closed, nose screwed up and grinning. There are pictures covering the refrigerator, drawn in crayon, far too technically apt to have been drawn by a human child; there's no artistic bent, no interpretation, it's straight realism - almost photographic.

Anika seems preternaturally calm next to her wife, though stress and sorrow are clear around her eyes. “He removed the art development protocols,” she tells RK900 before he has a chance to introduce himself, following his eyeline. “Didn't like only being able to make the same egg people over and over again. He has all sorts of paints and things now, but these were his first ones.”

She serves coffee from a little carafe at the dining table, which is made of a rich, dark wood. There are scrapes along the surface deep enough to have remained after what is clearly a professional touch-up, no more than a year or so old.

“We weren’t supposed to have him,” Jessica blurts at them, sudden and fearful. Her voice is tremulous, shaking. “He was never supposed to be ours, and now he’s been taken.”

“If Matthew wasn’t supposed to be ours, he wouldn’t have found us,” her wife replies. Her voice is soft, but tired, as though it’s something she’s said a number of times before.

“Found you?” Reed asks, and his entire demeanor is… gentle, entirely appropriate for questioning a grieving, frightened family. Whatever his personal feelings, he’s at least able to slip into a professional cloak for witnesses.

“We found him eight months ago,” Anika tells him. Her tone is brusque, but RK900 is fairly certain it’s to cover pain, rather than any genuine rudeness. “We found him hiding in the shed out back, dirty and scared. His parents were going to take him back,” she spits that out, disgusted, “they had a baby on the way, so they were just going to… to _throw him away_. He’s just a little boy.”

“Is there anything in particular that makes you think someone has taken him? Is it possible he’s just lost?”

“The only time Matthew leaves the house without us is to walk the dog for our neighbor. The responsibility makes him feel grown up.” Abruptly, her face crumples. Jessica’s arm flexes a little, squeezing her hand beneath the table. Anika takes a deep breath before smoothing her face out almost as quickly as it had folded. “The dog came back with the leash still attached. We all searched the neighborhood, but Matthew knows the route he’s allowed to take. He’s never misbehaved before, not like this. He knows better than to wander away.”

“The adoption was supposed to go through next month,” Jessica says quietly. “After all that business with Jericho, and the android rights movement, we - they said he was already a deviant. The people at Jericho, I mean. We took him there, thought that - we wanted that for him. It’s an ugly thing to call free will, isn’t it? Deviancy. But he deserves to make his own choices, and they said he already was, became one back when he ran away from _those people_.”

“Deviants can be unpredictable, ma’am,” Reed tells her gently, and she scowls at him.

“Not my Matthew,” she tells him firmly. “He was like that when he came to us, and he’s always been a good, sweet boy. You find out who took him, officer, and you bring our baby home in one piece.”

The rest of the interview doesn’t reveal anything they haven’t already accounted for in their initial statements, and the neighbor is out of town, so it’s not long before Reed & RK900 are taking their leave. Jessica catches RK900’s arm on the way out to thank him, very quietly, for his part in “that freedom business”, clearly having mistaken him for Connor. He doesn’t correct her, but by the time he makes it outside, it’s to see Reed’s car pulling away.

He calls a taxi, and between the initial delay and mild traffic, he doesn’t get to the precinct until Reed’s been there fully a half hour already.

He’s slung the leather jacket over his chair, leaving his forearms bare, muscular and lightly dusted with a promise of thicker hair elsewhere. He’s chewing on something, likely gum by account of the shape that flashes briefly between his teeth. He catches it in his cheek before giving RK900 a wide, snotty grin.

“Finally turned up, did you?”

RK900 doesn’t dignify that with an answer. Anger continues its itching crawl across his shoulders, and a flash of it ranges further afield - he was supposed to be a machine, and instead he's been burdened from the moment of his waking with empathy, with _connection_. He wouldn't have cared that his partner hates him, if he'd been allowed to stay as his design dictated. He wouldn’t have had a partner at all. The RK900 series would have been dispatched across the country, each machine taken out and dusted off only as convenient, whichever fell closest to hand collected by a human operator. As interchangeable as the half dozen blank mugs that are lined up beside the coffee machine.

Across the room, Connor requests a private connection. He denies it.


End file.
